Category Archives: Soaring to Artistic Heights

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So, then, there is this little side activity of mine that shows up in public from from time to time, and which would seem to require some explanation.

The Jenny Geddes Band is a group of friends that like music as much as I do, and which has a floating, inchoate, but very loyal membership. The band is named after the stalwart Scottish woman who threw her milking stool at the head of the minister when he attempted to introduce Anglican forms of prayer at St. Giles Cathedral in 1637. When she threw the stool, she yelled, “De’il gie you colic, the wame o’ ye, fause thief; daur ye say Mass in my lug?” which was a quaint way of expressing the pious wish that the devil would give the minister colic in the stomach, for he was a false thief, who dared to say Mass in her ear. None of this was printed beforehand in the bulletin, and it all led to the Wars of the Three Kingdoms. She needs more things named after her, and so we obliged.

But I got distracted. The Jenny Geddes Band is pleased to announce that we have released the song Hold Your Peace, and a video to accompany it. The theology contained within the song is of the thick oatmeal porridge kind that Jenny would approve, and which she no doubt fed to her bairns. It is available at iTunes here.

And here are the lyrics, for those who have complaints about my enunciation. If enough ask for it, we might produce a study guide for use in your Sunday School classes . . .

Esau was the first born son . . .
But Jacob was the chosen one.
Sold his birthright for his hunger . . .
And the older one shall serve the younger.

Good Lord hardened Pharoah’s heart
We want to take up Pharaoh’s part.
Lift him up just to bring him down,
And the whole Egyptian army drowned.

Oh, what do you say?
Oh, what do you say?
Hold your peace, rebellious pot,
The Lord is God and you are not.

Judas kept the common purse . . .
Judas went from bad to worse.
Thirty pieces, silver crumbs.
So woe to that man through whom it comes!

Pilate, Herod, all the Jews
They all did what they would choose
What did all the seers foretell?
So here was born true Israel.

Oh, what do you say?
Nothing but clay . . .
Hold your peace, rebellious pot,
The Lord is God and you are not.

Die is cast, its wisdom stored;
Its every tumble from the Lord.
A man’s way in his heart is kept,
But God will still direct his steps.

You say this gospel is stone cold,
But not when hearts are warm and bold!
So hold your peace, rebellious pot,
The Lord is God, and you are not.

Oh, what do you say?
Oh, what do you say?
Hold your peace, rebellious pot,
The Lord is God and you are not.

The Hound of Heaven is premiering in London later this week at the Raindance Film Festival, and you can see the trailer for it here at The Hollywood Reporter. It is a short film, so it will not be releasing in the usual theater way. When it is available I will beat the drum here in such a way as to help you find out how to see it.

This short film is remarkable in any number of ways, but the most remarkable thing about it is that it exists at all. A Victorian opium addict wrote a Victorian poem about all the baubles he had decided to pursue instead of Christ, and as he pursued them, he realized that he was being inexorably pursued. Bring this poem into a 21st century setting, have the pursuing hound of Heaven be represented by the rap artist Propaganda, mix in a hard series of surrealistic images, and you have a short movie that can speak across centuries.

When you consider the dilemma of mankind, you realize that there is nothing peculiarly Victorian about it — although the Victorians were full participants in this mess, just as we are.

Nate and Aaron rented an abandoned car dealership, built a subway tunnel in it, and a pool for the water shots, and a set house. My daughter Bekah designed the posters that were to line the tunnel, had them printed in Asia somewhere, just for kicks I think, whence they arrived just in time to be wallpapered up. Propaganda came up from California to give The Hound of Heaven his spoken word treatment, and did a fantastic job. Danielle Smith, an NSA student here in Moscow, gave a marvelous performance in capturing what it is like to run like a heroine in a horror flick. But the looming horror she runs from is . . . life.

I am not sure how many times I have seen it, but it stays powerful. We will let you know how to get it when it releases, so stay tuned — especially if you have any friends who are still running.

I had the pleasure of filling the pulpit this morning at All Souls in Lewiston, a church plant of Christ Church. We were joined there by IV Conerly, who was visiting, along with the Chocolate Knox and his delightful family. After the service IV gave us his recent (rap) album entitled The Unknown God. A little bit later, Nancy and I had our nice drive back to Moscow, and so we listened to our very first rap album together. Now I cannot claim that I rolled down the windows at intersections, in order to make the windows of the other cars throb, but I have to confess that I did at least think about it.

I am like a turnip in the punch bowl.

Before making my (appreciative) comments, let me confess that I really am out of my element. I am like the owner of a Prius at a Rolling Coal conference. I am like Chris Rock at a Monster Truck rally. I am like Richard Dawkins at a soup kitchen testimony meeting.

The first thing is that it reinforced my earlier thoughts on rap. This was good work, and a great example of what I was talking about here. The second thing is that it was borne in on me how heavily trochaic this art form is. I like trochaic. And last, I am excited about how much opportunity lies before these guys. The fields are white unto harvest.

I met a traveler from bankrupt land
Who said: ‘One vast and hapless head of stone
Lies in the desert. Near it, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered website lies, still down.
That haughty look, and sneer of cold command,
And photo-op poses, a myriad!
Still cannot get it, overwhelmed by “things”
Like “If you like it, you can keep it. Period.”
And on the teleprompt these words appear—
“My name is Obamamandias, king of kings:
Look on my work, ye uninsured, and despair!”
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
A once great health care system stretches far away.’